Haunted: The 20th Hunger Games
by MeganCK
Summary: SYOT CLOSED. The ghosts of our pasts haunt our memories and make us regret what we've done. Nobody knows this better than Head Gamemaker Octavius Holmes, who made one small mistake and is being forced to make up for it by making the 20th Games the biggest masterpiece since before the Dark Days. Will he succeed? Or will his past come back to bite him in the end?
1. Chapter 1

**Hello, and welcome to the 20th Hunger Games! All info is below, but if you want to read the first prologue and meet our esteemed interviewer, go ahead. (I won't force you. Your choice.) But I seriously recommend submitting. Because I promise you, once this story is full, I plan on kicking it into high gear. This is gonna be one hell of a ride, folks; let's jump in, shall we?**

* * *

 **Nona Caliber, Hunger Games Interviewer**

* * *

"You're on."

I nod and take my cue, running onto the stage with a grin across my face. "Hello again, Panem!" I shout into my microphone, relishing the cheers that explode from the audience. Everybody here loves me; it's amazing. "As you all know, my name is Nona Caliber, and I'm here to give _you_ the scoop on this year's Hunger Games!" The cheering grows even louder, and after a few seconds of trying to calm them down, I give up.

I grin and wave as I sit down on the couch, fixing my fedora; it's started to fall off again. I've never taken to the dresses and gowns that the rest of the Capitol loves so much. Pants are just so much more comfortable.

Once the audience calms down, I begin my usual speech. "Now, I'm sure that you've heard that this is the Games' twenty-year anniversary!" I gush, pausing for effect and waiting for the new round of applause to die down. "So instead of my usual speech, I have a special message for all of you from this year's Head Gamemaker! Of course, we tried to get him on the show, but he was too busy working on this year's arena. So here it is!"

While they're cheering (I swear, these people don't know how to quiet down), I reach into my vest pocket and pull out a sealed envelope, waving it in the air to grab their attention. Someone shouts "Holy shit!" incredibly loudly, so much so that it can be heard over the screaming. They're probably the one person who shows up to important events drunk.

I carefully open the envelope and take out a cream-colored letter, holding it in front of my face and squinting to read the sloppy cursive. "Dear Panem," I begin, "to celebrate the 20th Hunger Games, I am creating an arena the likes of which you have never seen. Muttations, hazards, tricks that have never been used before. I will create the Games to end all Games, and I guarantee, Panem, that you will be on the edge of your seats from the bloodbath to the finale. May the odds be ever in your favor; Octavius Holmes, Head Gamemaker."

For a few blissful seconds, everything is quiet. Then, the audience explodes with excitement, screaming their lungs out and turning to each other with overjoyed expressions.

My work for the day is done.

Someone backstage calls for me to return to the wing, cutting what was going to be a half-hour broadcast incredibly short. "Well, my time here is, unfortunately, up," I shout into the microphone, hoping that the people will hear me over the screaming. "It's been a blast, Panem; see you again in a few weeks during the 20th Annual Hunger Games!"

I run offstage, pulling my hat off my head as soon as I'm out of sight and brushing my unnaturally turquoise bangs out of my eyes. My hair is horribly short; I would love to grow it out, but it's something I'm known for here.

"Great show, Nona," a crew member says. I turn around to grin at them, though I know that it must look horribly fake.

"Let's hope that what Octavius wrote on that letter isn't a load of shit, hm? Can't have a bad Games," I joke, though there's an undertone of seriousness to my words. Ever since three years ago, a bad year of Hunger Games have been a reality.

Not giving him a chance to speak, I walk off, the letter still clutched in my hand.

As expected, my cell phone immediately rings, the caller's number one that I'm very familiar with. I pick up and take a shaky breath. "Hello?"

"He says you were fine, Miss Caliber. But he'd like for you to act like you care a little more."

My free hand curls into a fist. "I'm doing the best I can. And it's not like he's easy to please."

I can hear them hitch their breath. "W-well, he's the president of Panem. Not meeting his standards means severe punishment, and–"

"I know, I know," I cut them off, "the great Adoran Snow must be pleased at all costs. I'm trying, okay? I'm sorry that I'm not his exact image of perfect."

"Miss Caliber, I don't believe you understand," they say, desperation creeping into their voice. "The president wants you to _step up your game_. You don't seem excited about these Games at all in his eyes, and he needs every public figure in the Capitol to be thrilled. And because you have such heavy influence right now, your excitement is vital to him."

"I just think this has gone on long enough! Sure, it was fun in the beginning, and it served a good cause, but twenty years? That's hundreds of dead children."

They let out an exasperated sigh. "Miss Caliber, allow me to cut to the chase. The president wants you to interview Mr. Holmes next Saturday. If either of you don't create an amazing show, you'll regret it. And he says that's a promise."

I roll my eyes and fake a salute, though I know the assistant can't see it. "Yessir."

" _Miss Caliber._ "

I stifle a laugh. "Alright, sorry. Yeah, I'll be on that with a camera crew and everything. Tell the president he can count on me."

They sigh, and with a 'thank you, goodbye', they hang up. I pocket my phone and walk away from the backstage chaos behind me.

What has that stupid Gamemaker gotten himself into now?

* * *

 **So there we go. I know that it's not the most engaging prologue, but I needed to start somewhere.**

 **I know that I don't update my other SYOT very often, and I'm trying to change that, believe me. But I seriously plan on writing for this story constantly. I'm going to update whenever my busy-ass schedule allows me to, and I seriously don't want to abandon this.**

 **Now, there's no rebellion plot here. No overthrowing the Capitol, no rebels, nothing unusual aside from a few plot things I have planned. But that's my business. So I just want normal Hunger Games Tributes, with you keeping them as non-cliche as you can. I've created some rules to help you with that.**

* * *

 **1) No Sues, no flat characters. This should speak for itself. Sues aren't necessarily rainbow eyes or being good at literally everything (though those qualify too); they're the characters who create plot holes so they can win. Flat characters don't have enough detail. Also, clones count as Sues too. (NO KATNISSES PLEASE)**

 **2) I'm not writing it on the form, but detail belongs in every section that you think requires it. This includes backstory, personality, appearance, etc. Things that create a big picture.**

 **3) All forms must be PM'd to me with the format: Haunted: Tribute Name. No exceptions. Any reviews will not be considered. Also, no reservations; I'm choosing the best of the best.**

 **4) This is not first come first serve. I don't plan on filling submissions as I get ones that fit this time, so I can choose the characters that'll work the best off of each other. So you have to blow me away. As of now, the deadline is** **Saturday, January 16th by 12 midnight (EST).** **If I don't get all the characters I need, then I'll extend it, but that's where it is for now.**

 **5) You can submit a maximum of 2 Tributes, but I highly doubt that I'll use both.**

 **6) Be creative! I'm all for the occasional abused character or prostitute or orphan; hey, I've created them before. But I'd love something that I haven't seen before. That makes this whole experience more fun for everyone, right?**

* * *

 **Name:**

 **Age:**

 **Gender:**

 **District:**

 **Backup Districts: (2)**

 **Sexual Orientation:**

 **Appearance:**

 **Face Claim: (No common SYOT face claims, if you can help it)**

 **Personality:**

 **Fears:**

 **Interests:**

 **History:**

 **Family:**

 **Friends:**

 **Reaped or Volunteered?:**

 **Reaction/Reason:**

 **Reaping Outfit:**

 **Opinion on Capitol?:**

 **Opinion on Games?:**

 **What do they do in Training?:**

 **What do they present to the Gamemakers?:**

 **Recommended Score?: (May not be used)**

 **4+ Strengths:**

 **4+ Weaknesses:**

 **Interview Angle:**

 **Interview Quote:**

 **What do they do during the Bloodbath?:**

 **Allies?:**

 **Open to romance?:**

 **Recommended Placement: (Be realistic)**

 **Theme Song:**

 **Other:**

* * *

 **Next I plan on uploading the sponsor info, and then we'll probably meet our Head Gamemaker. Please spread the word about this; I want to shorten that deadline so I can get going.**

 **Form is on my profile, too, and once I get all the Tributes, I'll have a blog link up, probably.**

 **ALSO IF I DON'T UPDATE REMIND ME TO UPDATE. I mean SPAM THE HELL OUT OF ME. Through PMs, reviews, I don't care. But don't let me go for too long without updating, 'kay?**

 **PM me with questions and stuff. I hope to**


	2. Chapter 2

**So… today's the day. The list is up and the blog should be tomorrow. But you'll notice that 2 slots are open; D5 and D6 Male. I just didn't get any Tributes that I thought were unique or likable enough to use against so many other amazing characters. And… yeah, I had such a hard time choosing (especially for those Career girl slots). Thank you all for your beautiful characters. I really do think this story will be something special.**

* * *

 **Octavius Holmes, Head Gamemaker**

* * *

Nona will be here in a few minutes. When she's here, I can't work. If I can't work, I can't redeem myself. And if I can't redeem myself, everything will be over.

My hands move the holographic shapes across the platform, the blue light of the arena draft shining on my face. It's an oddly beautiful place that I've created, though it's in such a way that won't really shine to others. The beauty of it is hidden beneath layers of horror; when the layers are ripped away, someone can see the magic. The blood and the sweat and the tears that I've poured into this arena.

"Hello? 'Tavi? You here?"

Nona. I wasn't expecting her to just let herself in, but then again, we've know each other for so long that it's only natural.

"In here," I call, my voice raspy. It's been a while since I've had a drink, hasn't it? Oh, well, it's not like that's important.

Nona pokes her head into the room, a smirk lighting up her face. The grin falters, though, when her copper eyes lock on me. "Jeez, 'Tavi, when's the last time you slept?"

I have to think for a minute. Sleep isn't as important as the arena, so I must've forgotten about it. "Two, three days ago?"

She purses her lips as she steps inside, looking over her shoulder before closing the door behind her. "Not again. You can't pass up sleep. I mean, look at you!" She pulls some sort of antique device from her pocket—a compact, I think she called it—and opens it, letting me stare at my reflection.

She's right. I look god-awful. My dark red hair is knotted and messy, and there are bags under my green eyes. I haven't shaved, either, so there's the beginnings of a beard on my chin.

"That's what camera effects are for, right? Just fix me up after this stupid interview."

She rolls her eyes. "You know that the interview is live, right?"

Shit. "I know now."

She sighs and gives me a small smile, one so much more sincere than the one she wears for the cameras. "Only you. I'll have someone fix you up when the camera crew gets here, but before they do, would you kindly explain to me why the fuck you didn't show up to the other interview? Having to read the note made for a nice effect, but they wanted to see you."

They... I feel like I should know who _they_ are. Maybe it's the lack of sleep. "Who?"

"The rest of the Capitol!" she sighs. "Once an idiot, always an idiot, I guess."

Her eyes lock on the holographic Arena, widening in surprise. "Wow. 'Tavi, this is..."

I'm filled with pride as she stares at my creation in wonder, contemplating it's genius. If the president can get upset with me for this, he's wrong.

It will not happen again. I refuse to fail again.

Someone opens the door; it's Nona's camera crew, and—thank god—it looks like there's a makeup artist.

Nona grins at seeing her crew, and begins rattling off instructions. I catch the words "touch him up," and sure enough, the makeup artist rushes over and has me looking somewhat alive in just a few minutes.

The cameraman flicks a switch on his camera. "Five, four, three, two... and we're live!"

Nona flashes the camera her radiant grin, holding a microphone that I didn't see her pick up. "Hello again, Panem!" she chirps, her demeanor so different from the one she has offscreen. The sudden change is quite jarring. "I'm here with none other than the Head Gamemaker himself, Octavius Holmes! As you know, he, unfortunately couldn't make our broadcast earlier in the week. But we've brought you something even better! Hello, Octavius!"

Oh. I have to talk now. "Uh, hello, Nona."

She turns to me, the cameraman moving to get both of us in the shot. "So, Octavius, I'm sure that everyone in Panem has figured out by now that the reason why you couldn't make an appearance earlier this week is because you were so hard at work. So why don't you tell us something? Specifically, about the Arena?"

She's covering for me. Nona must know all too well that nobody will think I have an excuse (when, in fact, I do; this Arena needs to be perfect). "W-well, if I said anything, wouldn't that ruin the surprise?"

Nona laughs. "Oh, come on. Couldn't you say one thing? I'm sure that everyone watching at home is dying to know!"

She won't stop egging me on. Nona isn't my childhood friend in this moment; she's the television personality who exists only to create a good show. Everything about her when the cameras are on; that hat she always wears, her incredibly un-Capitol-like short hair, her bubbly attitude that makes her seem like a completely different person, all make her into someone else. This Nona won't let me dodge a question or shrug things off. She'd say it was for the viewers.

"Well…" I say hesitantly, "I wasn't kidding when I said it'd be nothing like you've ever seen. How do I put this… I've started from scratch. Yeah, that's it… I've started from scratch, and every mutt and obstacle in that arena is something completely new. None of it has been done in the past twenty years."

She gives me a small nod, letting me know that that was the right thing to say. "How exciting! I know that I'm not the only one who can't wait!" Her eyes says something very different; she doesn't know what to think.

Why wouldn't she want to see the Arena in action? Every single Arena is like peering into a Gamemaker's mind; what do they fear? What do they think others will fear?

Her cheerful expression morphs into something more morbid, more serious. "So, Octavius…" she says, her voice unsteady, "This is the first time you've been working on an arena since the disaster that was the 17th. Do you think this Arena will redeem you?"

Is she crazy? Nona must know that asking this question is suicidal, that the president will have her head… but the look in her eyes tells me to trust her. Since when _haven't_ I trusted her? "I do. I really, really do. The 17th… that was a mistake. On my part and on the part of every other Gamemaker who was working at the time. I do believe that not only will the 20th make up for the mistakes of the past, but it'll be the best Games yet."

Her expression is unreadable. "Oh, it looks like our time is up. See you again soon for the Reapings, Panem!" She smiles at the camera for a second until her cameraman calls "cut!"

"'Tavi, can I talk to you? _Alone_?" Her crew catches what she's saying and walks out of the room, closing the door behind them. Nona pulls off her hat and storms over to me until she's inches from my face. "Wrong answer, you idiot. You never, _ever_ , say that you regret anything."

What does she expect? It's not like I knew that. "Well, I had no idea! You shouldn't have asked the question in the first place!"

"I was trying to help! You should've caught on, said yes, and let me ask another question! But once an idiot, always an idiot, I guess."

"How can I catch on to something like that?"

"'Tavia, I was trying to help you!"

Tavia. She called me Tavia. Nobody calls me that anymore; I refuse to let them.

Realizing what she's said, Nona covers her mouth with her hand, copper eyes wide, taking a step back. "Oh,'Tavi, I'm so sorry… I didn't… I don't…"

"Get out," I say, my voice hushed. Nona doesn't move, frozen in place. "I said _get out_."

She slowly backs away, taking a deep breath. She's silent as she closes the door behind her, filling the room with an echoing _thud_.

Why would she do that? Octavia is my old name. Nobody is allowed to use it; she knows that better than anyone.

I shake the thoughts away and return to my holographic Arena, where the whole miniature world awaits my command. I can't let friends distract me from what's most important, can I?

No. I can't.

* * *

 **So, yeah. There's that. And believe it or not, next chapter is the District 1 Reaping. I honestly can't wait to get this show on the road.**

 **There's also been a change of plans regarding the sponsor system. How to earn the points will be kept to myself, but a record will be kept on the blog that's going up tomorrow (probably). Once the Interviews pass and we're at the chapter before the bloodbath, I'll reveal how to redeem those points. So keep checking the blog for info on how everyone's doing!**

 **I'm going to start doing chapter questions. So here are the first few.**

 **1) What's your opinion on Octavius and his little obsession?**

 **2) Excited to meet our cast of Tributes?**

 **3) Based on the list so far, which names stand out to you the most as "Victor names," or just as names you like?**

 **See you all next time in District 1!**


	3. Chapter 3

**AHHH THIS SHOULD'VE BEEN OUT SO MUCH SOONER I'M SO SORRY**

 **But I'm still happy with how it turned out. I love these two Tributes, they're super fun to write for.**

 **Dianna Briar was created by IVolunteerAsAuthor**

 **Glendale Brodgen was created by GryffindorOnFire**

* * *

 **Dianna Briar, District 1 Female**

* * *

The sun shines through my window and into my eyes, waking me up. Disoriented, I think for a minute before everything hits me. It's Reaping Day. A sudden sense of dread washes over me, and I clench my blanket in my hands as if to steady myself.

It can't be Reaping Day already. I thought I had more time; I _have_ to have more time. There's so much I haven't done or seen. My life can't be over yet.

My brother, Aristole, pops his head into my room, an uncharacteristically wide grin on his face. That's how I know he's excited; he's usually so serious. "Today's the day, sis," he cheers. I fake a smile and nod, though I really want to tell him what I'm really thinking; That I'm absolutely, positively terrified.

"Yup!" I chirp, pushing myself out of bed. "It's such a nice day, too. The sun's shining, the birds are singing, and everyone's so excited."

He nods, the smile fading, replaced with an eerie look of fascination. "Just a few days, and you'll be in the Arena, on your way to becoming a Victor. 23 kids dead, but you... you'll come home."

He has way too much faith in me. It could just be his obsession with the Games, but the fact that he always trained with me, and _knows_ that I never had a knack for any of the weapons, means that he's probably just trying to cheer me up.

But Aristole doesn't do that... is he sincere? Should I be happy that he thinks I can become a killer? Because I'm not, and I can't. I _won't_.

The warning bells chime outside; thirty minutes until the Reaping. It's all happening so quickly; before I know it, I'll be standing on a pedestal in an Arena that's been separated from the world.

"I guess I should get ready now, so, um, could you...?"

It takes Aristole a minute to realize what I'm saying before he nods. "Mom and Dad say be down in twenty."

I nod and he leaves, quietly closing the door behind him. I sigh and run my hands through my brown hair; I'm really not looking forward to this.

My mother must've laid out my Reaping dress last night when I fell asleep. She picked it out months ago. It's a plain white thing with lace across the chest. Nice and simple, just the way I like it.

I put the dress on and look in the mirror. The girl who stares back at me is beautiful; brown hair that stops at her shoulders, warm brown eyes, a sweet face that seems like it couldn't tell a lie. This isn't a face that should be covered in scars and blood.

If it wasn't for that stupid contract that my parents made when they funded the Tribute Academy, I wouldn't be volunteering today. I blame that contract, that piece of paper locked up in a safe somewhere, for the fact that I'm going to die. And by extension, I blame my parents. Threatening to cut me off if I don't volunteer... who does that to their kid?

"Dianna!" my father calls, his commanding voice echoing throughout our usually-quiet house. It shocks me out of my thoughts and sends me spiraling back into reality.

"Coming," I call back, pulling my shoes onto my feet and running downstairs. My entire family is staring at me when I arrive in the room; my parents, and Aristole.

"There she is, our future Victor!" my mom cheers, beaming and wrapping her arms around me. Despite the meaning behind her words, I can't help but smile, too; it's always nice seeing my mother happy, and focused on something besides herself. "You're going to make me famous, Di!"

There it is, that vanity that I've come to know so well.

My father is staring at me over my mother's shoulder, his expression unreadable. I push her off of me and walk over to him, smiling.

"Dianna, I assume that you know what you have to do today," he begins. I nod, trying to keep my thoughts in my head.

"Yes, dad."

"And you know what'll happen if you don't do it, right?"

Of course I know. I'll be cut off, basically disowned, left to die on the streets with nobody to care for me. My life will be over, all because of a stupid contract. I want nothing more than to say something, anything, and tell my parents exactly how I feel.

I lower my eyes, refusing to meet his gaze. "Yes, dad."

The Reaping bell chimes, the high, clear sound breaking through the awkward silence that had begun to form. Aristole is the first to say anything, heading for the door. "C'mon. Can't let Di show up late."

He's right. I can't be late for my death, now, can I?

* * *

 **Glendale Brodgen, District 1 Male**

* * *

When I want to escape, I'm in the Tribute Academy, hacking away at a dummy with my daggers. There's no mother here to knock me down, no bullies to make fun of me or tell me I'm not worth it. In the Tribute Academy, all that matters is your skills, which I happen to have a lot of.

I throw the dagger in my hand, waiting for the satisfying _thud_ of the blade hitting the fabric of the dummy, and the exposed red fabric within made to represent blood. The hilt of the dagger protrudes from the bright red heart-shaped target on the dummy, and I smile.

Finally. It's been a while since I've hit that particular kill spot from a distance. I'm much better when it comes to close combat, but distance is always good to master.

I hear slow, sarcastic clapping behind me, and I know that it can only be one person. Sure enough, I turn to find Lucrietus behind me, that cocky grin that I've come to know so well creeping across his face. He cups his hands to his mouth. "Ladies and gentlemen, your Victor of the 20th Annual Hunger Games: Glendale Brodgen!"

My heart swells with pride at the compliment, and I can't stop the grin from spreading across my face. Comments like that are few and far between when it comes to me. "Yup, that's me. Your very own Victor!" In my mind's eye, I'm no longer in the Academy, but in the Arena, holding a knife above my head. I've done it, I've won, and I can be accepted; maybe even _liked_. "Step right up for a look before you miss me!"

Lu rolls his eyes, grabbing my wrist and pushing my arm down. "Don't get cocky, dude. I think the Capitol's sick of cocky Victors."

"But the cocky ones always win," I protest, "so shouldn't I be cocky, too?"

He rolls his eyes as the half-hour warning bell chimes. Realizing what's to come, I bolt out of the Academy without saying goodbye to Lu; he knows that I can't make my mother angry... and I'm _still_ not ready for the Reaping.

Luckily for me, my house isn't that far away. I enter quietly, trying to slow my heavy breathing. I already have my excuse planned for why she hasn't seen me all morning; I was here the whole time, getting ready in my room. I wasn't doing a thing that would make her cross with me.

I pull on a nicer shirt and pair of pants and run my fingers through my blond hair, trying to appear somewhat presentable. When I volunteer, people need to know that I mean business, and that I'm not that loser that they once new.

"Glendale!"

Every muscle in my body tenses, and I freeze. What's she going to yell at me for now? I didn't do anything this time!

"Y-yeah, Mom?"

"Get your ass down here, we have fifteen minutes."

She talks like that so nonchalantly. I don't know how she does it.

I don't even respond as I rush out of my room (can't keep her waiting), only to be stopped by Splendor, one of my half-sisters. Who knows where the other half-siblings are?

She grabs my arm and turns me around. I can practically see the gears turning in that head of hers; she's simple minded, and she can't really think very well.

"Glen, good luck," she manages, beaming, eyes shining with pride. "Proud of you."

A small smile creeps onto my face. Splendor always knows exactly what to say. If that kid's proud of me, I'm doing something right. "Thank you," I say, my voice barely a whisper.

We rush downstairs together, greeted by our mother. Of course, our father is probably with someone else, somewhere else... it wouldn't surprise me.

She's sitting on the couch, looking absolutely despicable; that green dress of hers clashes horribly with her nearly-orange skin. Seeing Splendor and I, she rolls her eyes and looks away, checking her claw-like nails. "Glendale, all those enhancements, and you can't bother to look somewhat presentable?"

My heart sinks. Every enhancement made to my face, and it wasn't worth it, according to her. I'll always be ugly, disgusting, not needed.

"Honestly, why was I stuck with you as a stepson? I should at least have a child who's attractive."

I ignore her, storming towards the door and hiding my tears. I'll go to the Reaping early, and maybe Roland will be there. He always knows exactly what to say.

The Reaping bell chimes, right on cue. I run away from the house and towards the square, barely able to contain my excitement. Finally, I can prove myself. I'm not Glendale Brodgen, worthless nobody.

I'm Glendale Brodgen, Victor. At least, I will be.

* * *

 **Dianna Briar, District 1 Female**

* * *

The square is crowded, overflowing with eager people waiting to hear who their representatives will be for this year's Games, as well as angry kids my age who were pushed out of the way so I could volunteer. The line to get our fingers pricked moves quickly. I don't know why they do it anymore. For the past two years, ever since the kids of 1 started to be trained, no Reaped Tribute goes in.

I stick out my finger and say my name quickly when I reach the front of the line, not really paying attention to what the Peacekeeper says. Probably something about good luck; I don't really know.

The Mayor's speech is as bland as ever, and it's followed by that video of past Hunger Games; all of those sickening images of war and blood and death. I can't stand it.

The Escort, a blue-skinned woman by the name of Ulmira Graves, takes the stage, her smile sickeningly fake. "Hello again, District 1!" she chirps, her voice mangled by her Capitol accent. She looks far too happy, too, to be sending kids to their deaths. It's probably because we have four Victors already. They're lined up on the stage, too, backs straight, heads up, radiating confidence.

Ulmira walks over to the girls' Reaping bowl, pulling out a slip without seeming to care which one she takes. Of course; she knows what's going to happen.

"Emiley Jewell!"

Here goes nothing. My entire life thrown away with four simple words.

I take a deep breath and thrust my hand into the air, forcing a confident smile onto my face. "I volunteer as Tribute!" I shout, pushing my way out of the eighteen-year-old section and into the aisle. All eyes fall on me, and it takes everything I have not to shrink under the gaze of hundreds.

Ulmira widens her eyes in fake shock as I make my way to the stage. "It appears we have a volunteer! What's your name, young lady?" I'm surprised to find a warm, surprisingly welcoming look in her eyes. I didn't know that Capitolites could look like that.

I realize my smile has faltered, so I force it back onto my face, making sure to look as confident as my parents demand me to. "Dianna Briar," I say.

Ulmira smiles, and, ignoring the applause, turns around without a second glance at me. She walks over to the boys' bowl, and I stare out into the sea of people, realizing with a shock that the Games start now.

* * *

 **Glendale Brodgen, District 1 Male**

* * *

The girl looks too nice for these Games. She has a sweet face, and that cocky smile just doesn't suit her.

Then again, I'm not much better, am I?

Ulmira reaches into the boys' bowl, pulling out the first slip her fingers land on. I'm ready. I'm prepared. I can do this.

"Damien Luster!"

I push my way out of the crowd, standing tall in the middle of the aisle. "I volunteer as Tribute!" Everyone's looking at me, everyone knows that I'm here, and it feels damn good. I'm not shoved to the side anymore.

I matter.

"Another volunteer! How... surprising!" Ulmira says as I make my way to the stage, somehow maintaining her cheery attitude. "What's your name?"

I grin, looking out to the crowd. All those people who doubted me are staring at me with jealousy, maybe admiration. "Glendale Brodgen. I'll do you proud, District 1!"

The cheering I'm met with is unlike anything I've ever heard. It's deafening, hundreds of voices merging together into one wild cheer. My heart swells up with pride, my grin growing wider.

"Ladies and gentlemen," Ulmira calls, "your Tributes for the 20th Annual Hunger Games! Dianna Briar and Glendale Brodgen!"

I hold out my hand to Dianna, and she takes it hesitantly. I catch a glimpse of a tattoo on her wrist. Funny, she doesn't seem like the type to get tattoos in the first place.

An idea seems to dawn on her as she thrusts our locked hands into the air, turning to face the audience. I follow her lead, not letting my grin falter.

Ulmira leads us backstage, and Dianna looks like she's about to fall apart. She runs her hands through her hair, taking shuddering breaths. I do my best to ignore her, not letting her little panic attack get to me. If I'm going to make it out alive, I have to keep my head in the game.

I refuse to be a loser again.

* * *

 **FINALLY THIS IS DONE THANK GOD**

 ***sigh* Glendale was giving me some problems to write. While Dianna came surprisingly naturally to me, I couldn't get him right. And I'm still not sure if I did. But I refuse to make you wait any longer (I'm trying to fix my nonexistent update schedule), so here's this.**

 **1) Who do you like better, Dianna or Glendale? Why?**

 **2) Predictions? How far do you think these two can go?**

 **3) There's a link to the blog at the beginning of the previous chapter. Who are your favorites from there? (I know that I talked to some of you about the blog, so if I did, you can skip this one.)**

 **4) Do you like the way the POVs are formatted? If no, any ideas?**

 **See you guys in District 2.**

 **P.S: For those of you who asked, yes, Octavius is transgender. I plan on touching on that more in later chapters.**


	4. Chapter 4

**_TRIGGER WARNING: MAJOR cutting and self-harm in Maxim's first POV, as well as vague mentions of abuse._**

 **uh... hi.**

 **Sierra was created by LokiThisIsMadness.**

 **Maxim was created by CelticGames4.**

* * *

 **Maxim Curtius, District 2 Male**

* * *

I turn the small silver pocket knife over in my hands, the sunlight from outside reflecting off the blade. I've always found it kind of funny how such a small object can cause catastrophic damage, when wielded by the right person.

I roll up my sleeve and squeeze my eyes shut, holding my breath. No pain, no gain, I think to myself. The more pain I can endure here, the more pain I can endure in the arena.

I drag the blade across my wrist, and a sharp stinging sensation shoots up my arm. Crimson blood falls past my hand, past the tips of my fingers, and onto my desk, forming a puddle of dark red.

Deep breaths, deep breaths. No pain. I feel nothing.

There's a knock on my door... Dad. It's as if time slows down; I swipe the pocketknife off my desk, hiding it under papers, and pull my sleeve back down, ignoring the fact that the blood from my wrist is soaking into the fabric, probably staining it forever.

The door slams open, banging against the wall with a thud. My father, a powerful-looking man, glares at me from the doorway. The sharp smell of booze drifts into the room, making me want to gag. "Maxim, one hour. You'd better be fucking ready. And you know what'll happen if you aren't, yeah?" His words slur together; drunk. Of course he's fucking drunk.

"Yeah." I make sure that I don't say too much. Saying too much means he figures out how I tick. He'll never figure out how I work; when you figure out how the machine works, you figure out exactly what to do to break it down.

"Huh… that shirt wasn't always red, was it?" he questions, somehow turning an innocent question into something incredibly menacing.

A sense of panic shoots through me, and I hide my arm behind my back, ignoring the fact that the blood has probably dripped to the floor. "What're you talking about?"

He blinks for a minute before shooting me a glare and slamming the door behind him as he leaves, the force practically shaking the room. I exhale a sigh of relief, my hand falling back to my side.

The half-hour bell chimes, cutting through the silence like a sharpened knife. With another glance at my arm, I realize that I'm really not ready for this. Not just the Reaping itself, but the Games.

I won't be ready until it doesn't hurt anymore.

I go into my bathroom and grab a bandage, wrapping my wrist tightly in the white cloth. I don't bother to tie it off; it just sort of stays there, waiting to come loose.

I fiddle with the bandage as I walk back to my room, making sure the door is closed behind me. My father must've chosen clothing that he finds presentable; a gray shirt and black tie, khakis, the type of shoes he wore when he actually worked.

I roll up the sleeves on the shirt; have to let my cut show. Have to let the world know that I mean business.

I hurry to leave my room and head outside, the loud noises of District 2 on Reaping Day filling my ears. A mix of excitement and despair; we've only been training for two years. Who knows if two people will volunteer?

Considering the looks I'm getting, they know what I'm going to do.

Some idiot from the Tribute Academy waves at me as I'm walking to the Reaping; he's got a million-dollar grin on his face, like he owns the world.

I'm filled with the sudden urge to smack that cocky little smile off his face.

I push the sudden burst of rage down, taking a deep breath and continuing on my way. Seemingly out of nowhere, the roads to the square are suffocatingly crowded, people pushing past each other and struggling to make it there first.

I let the torrent of people guide me towards my destination, mentally preparing myself for my task ahead.

* * *

 **Sierra Reville, District 2 Female**

* * *

Someday I think I'll become a little too used to my morning routine. There's something very comforting about it, and about how familiar it all feels.

This particular morning starts out exactly the same; my brother, Robb, barges into my room, his twin, Kalik, following it hot pursuit and trying to quiet him down.

"Sierra! It's Reaping day!" Robb calls, slamming the door to my room behind him and startling me. I sit upright, and look at my brothers, tired.

"For the love of Panem, Robb, shut up," Kalik groans, a joking smile on his face. No matter how much he tried denying it, Kalik loves his brother.

Lack of acceptance. That's one of Kalik's many flaws. He has many more, of course, but his greatest is his constant state of denial.

You see, I've learned something about the world. No human is completely good, or completely bad. The flaws outweigh the strengths, though, especially in the case of the people of Panem.

Arrogant, yet afraid. Powerful, yet easy to break. Everyone in Panem shares these flaws.

And I feel as if I'm the only one who knows it.

"You guys, I need to get ready. Could you leave for a minute?" I say over their growing voices, a small smile creeping onto my face as I watch their banter. Robb has a grin on his face like he's won the world, and Kalik just looks angry.

Flawed as they may be, I couldn't imagine the outcome for them if the Games go badly. How would Robb's life change if he didn't talk to me anymore? Would Kalik deny my death, too? And my parents… would my mother be able to survive knowing that after all the fighting she did to keep me away from the arena, she was right? Would my father mourn my death, or just be disappointed in my lack of a victory?

I won't give them the chance to find out.

"Kids? Come down for breakfast, we only have a few minutes before the bell."

My mother's voice is like butter, sweet and soft, even when she yells for us. It's almost hypnotic; she can get us doing anything with just a few words.

As if proving my thoughts, my brothers rush downstairs eagerly with a chorus of "Coming!" and "Be right there!" I follow quietly, my grin growing wider with each passing second.

My mother has set some fruit on the table for us, and begins beaming at us as Robb and Kalik take their seats excitedly. When her blue eyes land on me, though, her warm smile becomes sadder, her expression a mix of proud and frightened.

"Well," she says, hesitating, "Sierra, this is your big day. I'm… I'm proud, dear. If this is what you want… go take it."

I'm about to thank her—not just for this, for everything—until I'm interrupted. "Sierra," my father says, immediately quieting my brothers and catching my attention. "You're aware of today, yes?"

I nod. "Yes, and I'm ready."

"Are you ready to walk onto that stage like a young lady?"

He's talking down to me. I'm not four years old. And I'm not much of a young lady, either. "Yes."

He narrows his eyes, and for a second I feel like he's training me again, a sword in both of our hands, ready to begin yet another match.

"Good." He turns his back and walks away, the uncomfortable silence he leaves behind broken by the half-hour bell. Wordlessly, we leave. Nothing needs to be said.

* * *

 **Maxim Curtius, District 2 Male**

* * *

The square is suffocatingly crowded, almost like the streets of the city. But everyone is stationary, and I'm stuck here like a sardine, unable to move a muscle. Even the straight line to check in is all over the place, making everything a thousand times worse. Chaos has erupted; the volume is overwhelming, the laughter far too cheerful for a Reaping.

When did this happen? Three years ago, nobody was this optimistic.

Before I know it, I've reached the table. The woman pricks my finger and I head off to the 18-year-old section, standing towards the aisle. Everyone seems to know that I'm a volunteer; word spreads quickly around here.

Time passes quickly before our escort, Jameston, a kind of pudgy man with hot pink hair, takes the stage. "Hello, District 2!" He's met with applause, a few people a little too enthusiastic.

"Before we start, I have a little presentation for you…" Not waiting for a response, a video begins to play on a screen I didn't know was there. Images of blood, gore, and then the famous image of a silhouette standing over a body with a sword in hand.

Jameston calls the attention back to him by tapping on the microphone, a loud high-pitched noise ringing through the air. "Sorry, sorry? Let's just get to the boys, shall we?"

He reaches into the bowl, carefully pulling out a slip. "Ellis Mason!"

A young boy steps out into the aisle, looking around expectantly. After three years of volunteers, I guess it's become expected.

I step out into the aisle, glaring at the boy. He meets my eyes and darts back into his section, an uneasy look on his face. "I volunteer as Tribute," I say, my voice projecting over the crowd.

"What's this?" Jameston gasps, faking surprise. "A volunteer! Step up here, young man, and do tell us your name."

I quietly trudge up the aisle, ignoring the eyes on me, the tense silence, the whispers. "That's him? That's Maxim?"

I smile as I step onto the stage, turning to face the audience. "Maxim Curtius."

* * *

 **Sierra Reville, District 2 Female**

* * *

The boy is surprisingly intimidating, though he looks somewhat cocky. Having him for a District partner should be… interesting.

"And now, for the girls," Jameston cheers, seemingly forgetting all about Maxim. He moves quickly to the girls' bowl and pulls a slip without much consideration. "Lianna Stone!"

I step out from the eighteen-year-old section, thrusting my hand into the air, doing my best to appear confident. "I volunteer as Tribute!"

Jameston's grin falters for a split second; he's come to expect volunteers, obviously. "A volunteer? What a… surprise! Step up, dear, and tell us your name."

I don't take my time like Maxim did; I hurry onstage, far too aware of all of the eyes on me. "Sierra Reville," I say, smiling, though I'm probably not hiding my anxiety very well. This is what I've been trained for my whole life, and now it's happening. I'm a Tribute.

"Ladies and gentlemen, Maxim Curtius and Sierra Reville, your Tributes for the 20th Hunger Games!" he cheers, grabbing our hands and hoisting them into the air. Maxim immediately struggles, trying to free his hand from Jameston's surprisingly tight grasp, but I embrace the moment, grinning.

And so it begins.

* * *

 **So… I promised myself this wouldn't happen and I didn't realize just how busy I was. Trust me when I say I'll do my best to make sure it doesn't happen again.**

 **1) Who do you like better, Sierra or Maxim? Why?**

 **2) Predictions?**

 **3) Sierra or Dianna? Maxim or Glendale?**

 **4) D1 or D2?**


	5. Chapter 5

**_NOTE: Ellissa is deaf and speaks in sign language. Her talking will be expressed with italics instead of traditional quotes._**

 **Ellissa was created by FlawlessCatastrophe**

 **Luke was created by Reader Castellan**

* * *

 **Ellissa Srenkovic, District 3 Female**

* * *

The trash can is empty. I don't know why I'm surprised by this anymore. The garbage is taken away at night, and I go searching in the morning, for whatever I can find. Food, a broken piece of technology, a spare shirt that didn't fit someone's child anymore.

Leftovers. That's all I get.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see a door slam open. I'm still not used to the lack of a sound it makes as it crashes against the wall. A tall, wiry man storms out and glares at me, pointing and shouting words I don't understand. He's wearing a suit, probably for the Reaping. I always forget the Reaping; it's difficult to keep track of time when you don't have a way to watch the hours go by.

I look directly at his lips; lip-reading is a skill I've picked up over the years. "—fuckin' street rat, fuck outta my trash!" he yells, the expression on his face one of anger. I don't need to hear the words to flinch at the force of them. My hands move to form words of my own; I just want some food to survive the night.

He doesn't respond, his face morphing into an expression of confusion. The anger doesn't leave, though; must be a generally angry man. I pity his family.

"Go away, street rat!" he says, and from the way his face is red with anger and his eyes are bulging out of his sockets, I can only assume that his voice has carried over the streets and all across this area of the District. Soon attention will be drawn to us, and that's the last thing I want.

Nobody defends the homeless child. They're on the side of the rich. The ones who can pay for the world.

So I obey, standing up with as much pride as I can muster and leaving the man behind, probably still screaming. The little dignity I have in this moment is destroyed as I trip over my own feet, my face beet red as I stumble. At least I didn't fall this time.

I imagine him laughing. What a riot, the little orphan girl can't even walk! It's been like this ever since the explosion at the factory; never respected, never treated like an equal.

Because I'm not an equal.

I push the thought from my head as a Peacekeeper walks in front of me, rifle resting in his gloved hands. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees me, and I freeze as he turns to me. "Kid, whaddaya doin' out?"

I don't answer. What does he mean? Did I do something wrong by not having a home, or being outside when I have no inside to go to?

"The warning bell rang fifteen minutes ago. Should be headin' to the square."

Oh.

I flash a small smile and move my hands, ignoring the look of confusion on his face. I'm deaf. I couldn't hear the bell.

By his blank expression, he didn't understand me. Of course he didn't.

I heave a sigh and walk in the direction of the square, assuming that he's still staring at me. They usually don't stop staring until I'm completely out of sight. I can practically feel their gazes on my back, an odd feeling that someone's eyes are on me.

After all, who can look away from the street rat?

* * *

 **Luke Sparks, District 3 Male**

* * *

My parents don't know I'm standing outside the door to their room, holding my breath, careful not to let my steps cause the hardwood floors to creak. Their voices are hushed, as if they don't want me to hear.

"I'm just worried about him, you know?" my mother whispers, pain enveloping her voice. I can only picture her expression; eyes filled with unshed tears, lip bitten as if holding back a sob, unable to look my father in the eyes. "It's his third Reaping, and his name is in there–"

"Only three times," my father responds, his voice incredibly calm. "Our son will not get picked; that I can promise you."

"Maybe this year!" she cries, and a surge of bravery leads me to crack open the door and see her hands clutching her graying hair, eyes wide in panic. "But then there's next year, and the next, and the next… Until he's nineteen I'm not going to stop worrying!"

It takes all my willpower not to run in there, not to throw my arms around my mother and tell her I'll be alright. But the reaping is soon, and I fear her seeing me will only trigger her more.

So I close the door and creep back to my room, awaiting the sound of the warning bells as I hunt for my Reaping outfit. It's a plain, simple outfit, but I really don't mind it, considering that the shirt is probably the newest thing I own.

I sit on my bed, my thoughts taking over my mind. Reaping Day. The day where two people from our District say goodbye to whatever lives they had.

It's no secret that the Tributes from 3 don't win. They're fodder—nothing more, nothing less—for the strong. And when we do make it far, it isn't far enough.

I'm shaken out of my thoughts by the warning bell. I hear a little yelp from down the hall, and I realize that my parents didn't stop talking. The yelp is followed by an almost eerie silence; not even the busy streets of 3 are buzzing today.

It's like they're already mourning the dead.

I walk through the hallway and down the stairs, hearing the door slam behind me. I stand by the door, praying that they won't realize that I was listening in.

My mother descends with a soft smile on her face. "Luke, are you ready?"

Over her shoulder, my father stares at me, casting a shadow across the floor. The warm expression I saw earlier is replaced with a more serious face, one that I've grown far too used to. He's always more serious around me; I've never figured out why.

"I guess so," I say, breaking eye contact so I don't crumble under his gaze. "How ready can I be?"

She puts her hand on my shoulder, and it's warm to the touch. "As ready as you are now."

That gets a smile out of me, and together we walk out the door, the three of us. A happy family.

* * *

 **Ellissa Srenkovic, District 3 Female**

* * *

The square is filled with people, so much so that I can barely move. I push through the crowds, struggling to stay in the line of children waiting to sign in to their deaths. I see mouths move, children sob, teenagers pull their shoulders back in an effort to look brave.

Really, their efforts are in vain.

The line moves surprisingly quickly, and the Peacekeeper is glaring at me through his helmet. I sign my name, Ellissa Srenkovic, but he just glares at me longer.

I sigh and grab his book of names, flipping through it until I reach S. Rolling my eyes, I point to my name, and though he looks appalled at my behavior, he grabs my hand and takes my blood regardless. The sharp sting of the needle lingers long after I take my place in the thirteen-year-old section.

The escort walks onstage, somehow not falling over in heels that are bigger than her ankles. She introduces herself into her microphone, but I'm too far away to read her blue-painted lips.

She stumbles over to the girls' bowl and pulls out a slip, reading the name. I imagine the sound echoing across the square, and I look around to see who's going into the Games.

But everyone else seems rather fixated on me.

Oh, no.

Dumbstruck, I step forward, slowly making my way onto the stage in a state of shock. The other people recognize me; they must. One of the little survivors of the factory explosion. I imagine that they're saying, how pitiful it is that the little orphan girl is going to die after surviving so much!

As I stare out at them, ignoring the escort trying to talk to me, I decide that death will not be my fate.

* * *

 **Luke Sparks, District 3 Male**

* * *

The Reaped girl stands with her head held high, ignoring poor Aemilla's attempts to talk to her. With a sigh, the escort walks over to the boys' bowl, the female tribute all but forgotten.

"Luke Sparks!" she calls, and every muscle in my body tenses. I can feel the world's eyes on me, and I don't like it. Not one bit.

I take tentative steps forward, the tears in my eyes difficult to keep at bay. As I reach the stage, Aemilla holds out a hand to help me (she must notice my wobbling legs), and I take it, grateful. I would've collapsed without it.

Ellissa, the Reaped girl, is glaring at me with dull blue-grey eyes. Her gaze seems to make up for what she doesn't want to say. Despite being small and thin, she's intimidating. Almost like with every look, she's discovered a new secret.

I break eye contact with her, only to have Aemilla grab our hands and hoist them into the air. "District 3, your Tributes! Luke Sparks and Ellissa Srenkoivc!"

Tentative clapping, looks of pity, hushed whispers to the people around them. The crowd is staring at the two poor little Tributes who are about to die.

I must look even more terrified than I am.

* * *

 **Okay, first of all, exams. I have exams for about a month every year (and it happens to fall during May, usually). Standardized testing, teachers being annoying, stuff like that. So naturally I don't have much time for writing.**

 **Summer is right around the corner (literally, I get out in 2 weeks). So I hope to be able to update waaaaay more. Because I have so much planned for this story and I can't wait to share it with you.**

 **Who do you like better, Luke or Ellissa? Why?**

 **Favorite Tribute so far? What about your favorite District?**

 **Predictions?**


End file.
